Flavors
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Some senosory fun. A collection of drabbles/one-shots centered around a few select tastes. What's your flavor? JIBBS. Smutty, to be sure.
1. Blue Raspberry

_A/N: Self-Explanatory; a series of drabbles/oneshots centered around different flavors. _

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_Blue Raspberry_

She was pissed. Her shoulders were rigid; her voice loud, and her emerald eyes were bright and blazing. She was talking, fast and angry, one long leg crossed over the other as she vented her frustration to him—but he had stopped listening ages ago.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs stood next to his boat, sander in hand, watching her with darkened cobalt eyes. She didn't notice the look in his eye, hadn't realized he wasn't listening, and it was a damn good thing because he was content to just _watch_ her eat that Popsicle.

He didn't even know where it came from. He sure as hell didn't have them in the house—he was unaware she even liked popsicles. As he watched her mouth, blatantly and shamelessly sexualizing her every move, he chalked the Popsicle up to summer cravings and the unbearable heat that had swept over D.C. lately.

The sight of her sitting there in her pristine business attire sucking on that Popsicle was just so…_Playboy_.

He couldn't _help_ but fantasize...

"You're not even listening to me!" she snapped suddenly, breaking off.

His words slammed into each other in his throat as he raised his eyes away from her slightly blue lips. She held the Popsicle away from her mouth, giving him an expectant look, her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"How am I supposed to…" he answered slightly hoarsely, gesturing at the frozen treat.

Jenny glanced at it with a lifted eyebrow and seemed to get his meaning.

"Oh," she said non-chalantly. "Sorry,"

Jenny stood up slowly and walked towards him, her heels clicking on the cement. She tilted her head at him seductively, a wicked smile pulling at her mouth. She held the Popsicle up.

"Did you want some? It's Blue Raspberry."

She put it back in her mouth, teasing him mercilessly.

"Jen," he warned, reaching for her.

Agonizingly slowly, she removed the Popsicle from her mouth. Her eyes flickered impishly and she leaned forward and pulled his head towards her, running her tongue over his bottom lip, kissing him slowly until he could taste the sour-sweet syrup. His hands tightened at her hips and he pulled her closer.

Snickering slightly, she pulled back a fraction of an inch and licked the Popsicle, the look in her eye far too scandalous and sultry to be safe to play with.

"You, Jethro," she said lightly, biting off the top of the Popsicle and ignoring the blue juice that ran over her mouth, "have a _dirty_ mind."

Well he sure as hell wasn't going to think of politics and business while she oh-so-innocently deep throated a Popsicle.

He couldn't take his eyes off her sinful, blue-stained mouth. She smirked, her small hand reaching behind his head to hold his head back away from her, making him watch. His stomach clenched and she shifted against him, raising her eyebrow knowingly, her hand falling down over his chest to the waistband of his pants.

"God, Jethro, it's so _easy_ to get you going," she purred, holding up the empty Popsicle stick up to him and dropping it unceremoniously onto the basement floor.

She pressed her lips to his again and he fisted a hand in her crimson hair, forcing his tongue into her mouth hungrily. Her hands fluttered at his belt and she jerked his t-shirt upwards, extracting herself from his forceful kiss long enough to remove his shirt. With a promising look, she dragged her nails down his chest until her fingers found the clasp of his belt again and she worked it loose.

He tilted her head back by the ends of her hair, kissing her roughly, suddenly and inexplicably addicted to Blue Raspberry. She sighed and he pulled her in tighter; her hands expertly unfastened his jeans and she shimmied them down, snaking her hands back up his abdomen and pushing his shoulders back against the boat frame, squeezing gently on his bicep to get him to release her hair.

She flicked her tongue over his lips, kissed along his jaw and down his neck. She pressed open-mouth kisses down his chest, her hands slipping down his arms. She tugged his boxers down, and he realized what she was doing five seconds before she did it.

"_Christ_ Jen," he groaned.

She smirked at him with wicked eyes before she went down and his head hit the wooden frame behind him. He laced his hands into her red curls and pulled hard as her sinful stained mouth rendered all intelligent thought mushy and leaves him with nothing but the taste of Blue Raspberry in his watering mouth.

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_Yes. I realize I'm a naughty person._


	2. Peppermint

_A/N: There was an *interesting* article about Peppermint in Cosmopolitan a few years ago. This is the clean version. And I just...love Peppermint._

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_Peppermint_

He remembers the first time she kissed him with peppermint in her mouth.

All those years ago, in Paris, a cold February morning when she'd been quietly watching him work. He remembers the soft crackle of plastic as she had opened them and dropped them into a steaming mug of hot chocolate, pausing to eat one while she waited for them to dissolve.

She had pulled him out of his mire of case files, turning his chair around and sitting on his lap as she reached around and laced warm hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, tilting his head back gently and covering her mouth with his.

He remembers the cool, spicy taste of her lips and how she'd wrecked his senses with that one minty kiss, leaving his lips tingling with Peppermint and Jenny; a taste that lingered for years, addictive and tantalizing.

He remembers how fresh her mouth was when she tongued him through a peppermint, invading the confines of his mouth with menthol and sugar until it was almost like drinking shots of straight vodka and he was drunk on the sheer tease of it.

He remembers how wintry and sweet her breath felt against his skin, and how he could smell peppermint on her when she kissed his jaw, whispered in his ear her enticing words, and lay on her back underneath him with her long legs wrapped around his waist.

He remembers how sexy it was when she kissed down his neck and shoulders, pressing her red, sinful mouth against his abdomen, extolling the virtues of peppermint's healing and refreshing qualities in her throaty purr as she kissed dangerously lower.

He remembers Christmases with her and candy canes. He thinks of Peppermint Schnapps and how sickly sweet and unsavory the liquor was until he drank it off of her lips.

He remembers never tasting peppermint while he was with her unless it was out of her mouth, and he remembers never tasting it after she left because it was just wasn't the same.

He sees red and white stripes in the night when her absence is painful, physically and emotionally. He thinks of her white-snow skin and russet-red hair and smells peppermint and he aches for her.

So when he sees her slip a peppermint in her mouth as he barges into her posh little office unannounced, and sees her look up slightly startled, her lips parted slightly…he can't resist. He doesn't have a choice; it's inevitable. The slight lift of her perfectly arched eyebrow shows she damn well knows it.

He storms around her desk, spins her dictator's chair around in a violent motion that lacks any shred of decorum and plunges his hand into her thick crimson hair. He all but jerks her head back, crushing his mouth against hers and holding her lips captive while he drinks in her taste, intoxicating his senses until he's dizzy and she moans quietly and pushes her tongue into his mouth, giving him the ultimate Peppermint fix.

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_xoxo_

_Alexa_


	3. Bourbon

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_Bourbon_

It didn't have a thing to do with the alcohol.

It never had.

Jennifer Shepard's drink of choice had always been a dry martini or a cool margarita; fruity drinks with umbrellas offset with the occasional scotch or vodka if she was feeling really depressed or particularly bitchy. She hadn't touched bourbon until Jethro, and she hadn't touched anything else since.

She didn't drink for a buzz, didn't drink to get drunk; she'd never been one for that either. When she drank it was casual, social, a stress-reliever, and she always knew when to stop.

That frigid, poised and conservative self-control had been before Jethro, too.

He introduced her to bourbon and she associated it with him. She still cringed at the memory of her first taste and the burning, searing trail it had left in her throat, the tingle it had sent through her nerves and the tears it had brought to her eyes. It was bitter, like acid if you were melodramatic; a hard drink to handle with an intoxicating pull to keep drinking, possessor of an after taste so stubborn that you just couldn't get rid of it.

It was, essentially, Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

In those days her drink of choice, her preferred cocktail and personal heroine had been him—his mouth, his skin, his rough hands and his crystal-cold soul-searching eyes. Then she'd been younger, more reckless; a bit of a rebel and a shrewd agent with an ambitious streak a mile wide. She'd pinch her nose and match his bourbon shots, laughing, holding her liquor better than most men, waiting for the day when the _acquired_ _taste_ would turn from bitter and acidic to sweet and saccharine.

Back then she hadn't needed the drink; she had him. He was an endless supply of an alcohol buzz and a drug-induced high; he was the only way she could taste his godforsaken beloved bourbon and close her eyes with the flavor on her tongue in ecstasy. It was all _over_ him; always on his lips and in his mouth.

He smelled of sawdust and tasted of bourbon.

She'd swear the alcohol was in his blood, part of his skin, constant cologne on his clothes and in his hair. Kissing him was like tossing back shot gloss after shot glass of amber-sweet liquid; her tongue in his mouth was like an overdose of southern comfort that had her mind spinning and her head welcoming the inevitable blissful hangover.

Wicked, sinful, and oh-so-intoxicating was the memory of her spilling bourbon on him in Serbia accidentally, and the sultry act of passion that resulted from her putting her mouth to his neck just to taste the liquor off of his already mouth-watering skin.

In her darkest hours now she craved bourbon, she needed it, was hopelessly, dangerously, and voluntarily addicted to it. The moment she'd turned her back on him was the moment the drink had turned sweet; the day she'd no longer had his mouth to kiss was the day she'd succumbed to an overwhelming and fanatical taste for Dutch courage.

She drank it on lonely nights in Cairo, thinking of him and his touch, closing her eyes to block the sandy desert out and dwell on memories of a hot, passionate affair in a Marseille attic and how he had always made her feel like no one ever had when he was making love to her.

She knocked it back after dark in her study, in the early days when he'd still had so much pain in his eyes following her re-appearance and her rejection—she sat behind her desk and stared glassy-eyed at the couch in her study, sipping the alcohol ceaselessly and substituting it for his lips as she remembered him shamelessly taking her on that very sofa.

She drank to remember him, drank to hold onto him. She was terrified of losing the memories, good and bad, and bourbon awakened and electrified them; often let her dream about them in color and sound. She drank and cried silently and hated her decision; she drank and she could almost feel his hands brushing over her lips and kissing her softly after a drink because he knew how she liked it.

She drank herself silent and cold. She ached for the constant aftertaste of bourbon to drown the aftertaste of Jethro that would never, ever leave her alone. She drank so maybe her vision would blur and she wouldn't have to look at him. She drank not to forget and to numb but to feel and remember and _love_.

She angrily wished he'd told her once she acquired the taste it would haunt her forever. She recklessly considered giving everything up to have one last chance to taste bourbon not from a cold and impersonal crystal tumbler but from his warm and intoxicating lips. She bitterly regretted and she constantly hurt.

She lifted a glass to her lips and swallowed a mouthful of the warm, amber-gold soothing liquor and closed her eyes lightly, holding back angry and painful tears. She let the liquid linger on her lips and felt Jethro's arms around her, inhaled his scent, tasted him and heard his deep and comforting voice in her ear.

No. It wasn't about the buzz or the high. It wasn't about the alcohol and the careless feeling of being drunk and morally bankrupt. It was about Jethro; it always had been. Her Jethro.

She drank because bourbon was all she had left of him.

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_Alcohol + Angst =Jibbs._


	4. Chocolate

_A/N: I was pretty much ordered to produce fluff this time--I'm not sure if this consitutes, but I hope it suffices:]_

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Jennifer Shepard was, to put it mildly, very _very_ glad her week from hell was over. It wasn't that it had been a particularly gruesome work week, or that SecNav had been any less understanding than usual. No one had even pissed off the FBI, so there wasn't really any reason for an outsider to believe that the Director of NCIS should be displeased with her seemingly benign week.

Jenny, on the other hand, was privy to the reason her week had sucked; that being because it was her all time _favorite_ time of the month—with extreme sarcastic emphasis on the word 'favorite'. She had just been in an unpleasant, uncomfortable, sleepy, hysterical mood all week and had subsequently due to hormones and a bad temper magnified every little thing into some huge national crisis.

And now, at last, _finally_, thankfully, it was all over. She was home for a glorious weekend, rid of the monthly curse, and eagerly looking forward to lying around doing nothing and enjoying a few quiet, cramp-less days.

She wasn't looking forward to someone being in her house, and it became annoyingly clear someone _was_ the moment she opened her door and discovered a Navy issue pea coat thrown over the banister of her stairs.

That wasn't all she discovered.

To her surprise, her first step resulted in her heel impaling something small and soft on the carpet. Closing the door behind her rather loudly to announce her presence—and as she squinted to examine the impaled object, she had a sneaking suspicion as to _who_ was in her house—she lifted her shoe off and glanced at the heel's victim. Over the top of her very expensive and very beloved shoe, she followed a sprinkling of similar small squishy objects up her stairs and, she assumed, down the hall.

There was a Hershey's kisses trail in her house, up her stairs, and _probably_ leading into her bedroom.

The annoyance evaporated just a little as she removed her other shoe and placed them at the foot of the stairs, raising her eyebrow at the little cone-shaped candies. The point, she assumed, was to lure her up the stairs instead of into her study where she'd sip a glass of bourbon and do a little work. Clever, she thought, and cute; she _really_ didn't want to succumb to following chocolate up her stairs like a lovesick child—but she couldn't just _ignore_ a bunch of chocolate.

Jenny conceded. She plucked one of the kisses off of her stairs and gave them each an amused look as she walked up the stairs, her hand skating along the banister as she tugged the aluminum foil wrapping off one with her teeth.

She bit off the tip of the kiss like she always did and smirked as she followed the candy to her bedroom, pausing briefly in the doorway. The candy went straight for the bed, and turned in a swirly trail at the last moment towards her ensuite bathroom. Triumphantly, she noted the gun and badge thrown on her bed that confirmed her sneaking suspicion and took her time to cross to the bathroom, approaching silently.

Water was running; she should have noticed it immediately. The candy must have been a distraction tactic as well.

Jenny leaned in the doorway casually, still holding the last part of a Hershey's in front of her lips, tilting her head at her intruder's back as he ran his hands under the water in her sparkly clean bathtub. She resisted the urge to snicker when he didn't notice her, and instead glanced around at her bathroom.

Her robe was present; a few select items from her lingerie drawer that made her lift an eyebrow to herself, a candle, a book, and a brand new box of Russell-Stover chocolates.

Her eyes all but lit up at the sight of the red-ribboned white box. She flicked her eyes back to her visitor's backside and smirked appreciatively before alerting him to her presence.

"Get lost on your way home, Jethro?" she asked smoothly, putting the rest of her Hershey's kiss in her mouth and smiling when one of his hands slipped into the tub with a splash and he turned around with a half-masked surprised look.

He straightened up and had the gall to look not guilty but accusatory.

"What're you doing here, Jen?" he asked brazenly.

Jenny gave him an incredulous look, rubbing one of her ankles with her barefoot.

"I live here," she answered smartly, glaring at him slightly. "Got a reason for breaking and entering?"

"I didn't," he answered defiantly, deftly slipping a gold key out of his jeans pocket and holding it up mockingly.

"That is for emergencies _only_."

"It _was_ an emergency," he protested with a mutter, glaring at her. When Jenny gave him a disbelieving look and pursed her lips like a disapproving Director, he just quirked his own eyebrow and turned back slightly, pushing the running water to a hotter temperature.

"I know what week it is," he stated cryptically, throwing a dark look at her.

She flashed back briefly to a week in Paris when he'd borne the brunt of her PMS furor. Amused, she remembered his childish avoidance of her and suddenly wondered if the entire agency knew what week it was. Shaking the thought away, she narrowed her eyes at Jethro, deciding it was weird that he knew her cycle.

"That's creepy, Jethro," she informed him lightly, looking around. She slid down the doorway slightly and picked up another Hershey's kiss, holding it up and looking at it with a small smile, tilting her head at him.

"Thought you might need it," he said, watching her with cool eyes, "you always did," he added in an undertone, and she gave him a warning look that wasn't too serious.

"I planned on ducking out before you came home,"

Jenny snorted, and started to open the kiss in her hands, raising an eyebrow at him. She studied his face for a moment and then smirked.

"Liar," she accused, tossing the wrapper at a small waste bin, "you _wanted_ me to catch you."

"Why would you think that?" he asked innocently, much too innocently. Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not innocent. Nor did he 'duck out' of places like a shame-faced adulterer.

Jenny shrugged and pushed off of the door frame, resting her palm on the edge of the sink as she pulled the edge of the red ribbon around the gourmet chocolates, touched that he'd remembered her favorite.

Russell-Stover, dark chocolate cream collection.

She looked up at Jethro through her eyelashes, flicking the ribbon aside and spreading her hand out over the top of the box as she covertly appreciated the way his undershirt clung to his torso in the musky, warm air caused by the steaming bath.

"These for me?" she asked, looking down at the box as she carefully started to lift the lid. She heard his non-committal grunt and bit her lip as she scanned the neat box of chocolates for her favorite.

She glared at the only empty little slot in the entire box and gave Jethro a sharp look.

"You ate my Dark Chocolate Raspberry Caramel Cream," she accused menacingly, approaching him with dark eyes.

He leaned against the wall next to her bath tub and casually shut off the water, leaving the bubbles to bubble silently and steam to rise from the bath. He smirked as his hand skated over the side of the tub and swiped something; he produced the aforementioned prized chocolate and held it up tauntingly.

Jenny just lifted an eyebrow, a wicked smile creeping across her lips slowly.

"Jethro," she started, as if interrogating a suspect, "if you were going to quietly duck out the back after setting up such a nice, relaxing treat for me, therefore making sure I didn't catch you and we _didn't_ end up naked somehow—and I'm _not_ saying we will," she added, seeing the flash in his blue eyes. She smirked, tilting her head provocatively. "If there is truth to that statement…why did you kidnap my favorite chocolate?"

He just gave her a blank look, the best unconcerned and unaware mask she'd ever seen. Too bad she could spot the mischievous, wicked glint in his eyes from a mile away no matter how hard he tried to disguise it with indifference.

"You're holding it ransom," Jenny announced coolly. She reached up and, with an unaffected air, tugged her hair from its pristine bun and let it tumble down her back. She smirked at him, approaching him and grabbing his wrist, holding tight the hand that held her candy captive and pursed her lips, watching him attempt to remain unconcerned.

"You, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, are attempting to seduce me," she accused, narrowing her eyes playfully.

His lips twitched.

"Is it working?"

Jenny smiled like a Cheshire cat and took her Dark Chocolate Raspberry Caramel Cream from his hand delicately, squinching her nose as it smeared against her fingers, warm and sticky from sitting on the edge of the bathtub. She gave Jethro a reprimanding look.

"Chocolate melts when it gets hot," she informed him patronizingly, lifting an eyebrow.

She tried not to breathe him in. His intoxicating scent of bourbon and sawdust was already enough to drive her mad, but he smelt faintly of chocolate tonight, too, and that really _was_ too much.

Her eyes fluttered slightly as she surrendered and took a deep breath, leaning in a little too close, shrugging away her practical mind. She snapped her eyes open and pulled his hand down between them, giving his larger hand a look. Jenny flicked her eyes up to him and grinned, pressing her thumb into his palm and bringing his fingers to her lips.

"Waste not," she quipped luridly.

He sucked in his breath when she kissed his knuckles and moved her tongue around the fingers that had melted chocolate all over them, his free hand moved to rest on her shoulder and thread through the strands of hair he could reach.

Jenny blew lightly on his fingertips and smirked, quite proud of herself. She tilted her head up provocatively and pressed the fast-melting chocolate against her lips.

She'd show him to come into her bathroom and act like _he_ was in control. She closed her lips around half of the chocolate and bit into it, making sure enough of it got on her lips to really test his self control.

"Who's seducing who?" he growled hoarsely, his eyes darkening considerably. She widened her eyes innocently and silently ate the rest of the chocolate. He scowled at her.

Jenny smirked and leaned closer, brushing her lips just shy of his, her breath sprinkling across his jaw and neck tantalizingly. Her hand slipped up his arm to his neck and curled there, playing with the hair at the back of his neck.

"You admit you were trying to seduce me, then?" she asked quietly, closing her eyes to breathe him in deeper. "Your cute little cover of being so nice and so thoughtful is false, and you were shamelessly trying to lure me into a sweaty tryst using chocolate and a steamy bath when you knew I most needed both?"

"No," he hissed stubbornly, and Jenny just laughed mockingly.

He could deny it, he could say whatever he wanted, but his body spoke for him. She pulled back and gave him a sultry, admonishing look. She raised one eyebrow enticingly and released his neck momentarily to unbutton her blouse. She shrugged it off casually and pushed her skirt down her legs with the same ease, stepping out of it and standing in front of him in her overwhelmingly revealing black lace bra and panties.

His eyes devoured her, and he reached out to touch but she slapped his hand away, shaking her head. Her hand went back to his neck and she pulled him back across the small bathroom until her back hit the sink a little roughly and she pulled him against her.

She used his shoulders to boost herself up on the sink and sat in front of him.

Jenny picked up another chocolate from the white box and held it in front of him.

"You know I love chocolate you deviant bastard," she accused silkily, taking another painfully erotic bite.

She held up the uneaten half to him generously. His hands fell to her bare knees and ran up her legs, pushing them apart. He pressed closer and she pressed the chocolate to his lips.

"It's like a bite of heaven," Jenny sing-songed in a purr, "Sweet. Addictive. Warm, luscious," she lowered her voice and watched him lick his lips with pleasure when she pulled the chocolate away.

"Like you," he said hoarsely.

Jenny smirked.

"I'm flattered,"

She popped the rest of the chocolate in her mouth and pulled his mouth to hers with both hands on the sides of his head, kissing him with everything she had, all the sexual tension they'd ever stored away, all the week's frustration, and all the reckless endorphins screaming around inside of her. Whether the intoxicating, spicy taste was Jethro or the lingering chocolate on her tongue she couldn't tell, but nothing had every tasted so good either way.

She pulled a fraction of an inch away with a quiet moan only when she felt she would pass out from the dizzying lack of air and smirked against his bruised lips, his slightly ragged breathing music to her ears.

Jenny lifted her knees and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in close to her until she could feel him pressed against her center and the slightly damp material of his cotton shirt was pressed against the bare parts of her skin. She leaned her head back and picked up another chocolate.

Her eyes were full of raw sexuality, blatant seduction. She pressed the candy to her mouth again, her legs warm and tight around his waist, and he could think of nothing but her chocolate covered tongue in his mouth again.

His hands wrapped around her middle, pulling her forward, sinking into flawless fair skin that he could ironically compare to white chocolate if he dared. Jenny bit into her current piece of chocolate inches away from his mouth, mercilessly teasing him, turning his one weapon of seduction against him.

"You've got nerve, trying to seduce me with chocolate in my own bathroom," she purred, reprimanding, shaking her head slightly and nudging her nose against his to lift his chin.

Her lips grazed his and he tried to pull her in but she escaped, pulling back just a little and pushing her forehead against his to keep his lips away. His mouth went dry, ached, and almost watered for the bittersweet dark chocolate he knew was waiting on hers.

"The thought is sweet," she murmured tantalizingly, "no pun intended," she added with a smirk.

"Jenny," he hissed warningly. Jenny lifted an eyebrow and grazed her lips against his again, ever the intoxicating vixen. He gripped her thigh tightly enough to bruise her and pulled her close, thrusting against her. Jenny gasped sharply and giggled, pulling her head back even though he held her in a tight grip.

"Jethro," she clicked her tongue with a sigh and arched an eyebrow, her lips puckering sensually in a semi-worried mock frown. "Patience," she admonished, biting just plain vulgarly into the chocolate between her two fingers and feigning an ecstatic look.

Her eyes blazed with a reigned in fire, sparkled with a wicked smirk even while her teasing lips pouted and closed around the chocolates he'd brought for her, chocolates that had suddenly become the bane of his entire existence.

"You brought me the chocolates with sinful intentions," she said softly, the look in her eye almost _evil_, "You _will_ watch me eat them," she finished cattily.

She popped an antagonizing piece of chocolate in her mouth with a fierce smirk and brought her lips down on his in an anything but chaste, hard, sweet French-kiss that made watching her suck on twelve more pieces of chocolate just fine by him.

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_Blame it on Raspberry-Chocolate Milano cookies.  
Alexa_


	5. Lemon

_A/N: I tasted the lemon in my water the other day...it was quite an experience. Maybe not like THIS..._

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She had always loved lemons.

It was such an unorthodox fruit to love; no one used lemons for anything other than seasoning or as a decorative addition to a glass of plain water. Her chief reason for the glass of ice cold, clear water on her desk was the yellow lemon curved around the edge of the crystal.

Jenny Shepard plucked the lemon slice off of her glass between two fingers lazily, leaning on her elbows on her desk. She'd been craving one all day, mostly because it was so uncharacteristically hot outside and the air conditioning in the building was shot. Lemons never failed to cool her off, and she'd forced herself to finish her pressing work before she treated herself.

She tasted the edge of the fruit's flesh lightly, unaffected by the sour twinge in her taste buds, and reached down to loosen the collar of her shirt, undoing one or two buttons. She was going to enjoy this, and she allowed herself to believe she deserved it. Jenny bit into the fruit, closing her eyes lightly.

Her peace was interrupted.

The office door flew open and banged against the wall behind it, announcing the insolent arrival of the one man she was trying to avoid, considering the overwhelming heat in the building.

Jenny opened one eye slightly, looking through her eyelashes, the lemon still held to her mouth. She sighed inwardly as he casually slammed the door shut and paused, staring at her. He really had an annoying knack for ruining her relaxation.

Jenny swallowed the piece of lemon in her mouth and pursed her lips, pulling the fruit away just enough to be able to speak clearly.

"What do you want, Jethro?" she asked airily, refusing to rise to his antagonizing today.

He glared at her, though for what she wasn't sure. She hadn't even done anything today, at least not intentionally.

Jenny lifted her eyebrow and waited for a response; Jethro shifted and continued to glare broodingly. Jenny licked her lips and cleared her throat.

"Jethro?" she questioned, irritation creeping into her tone. It was disconcerting to be stared at like that, not to mention a little reminiscent of hot summer days past.

His eyes flicked upwards and he met her gaze, like he was seeing her for the first time.

"You going to finish that?" he asked hoarsely.

Jenny raised her eyebrows.

She glanced back at her precious lemon treat and resisted the urge to smirk. This would be better executed if she kept a stoic face. His interruption of her down time could be easily forgiven if he subjected himself to her brand of torture just for fun.

Jenny tilted her head ever so little and took a small bite of the lemon again, eating it as she always had. It had always gotten to him; the way she nonchalantly made her way through a lemon slice: slowly pulling away the curve of soft fruit with her lips, licking the juice off her lips as she went and looking so wickedly innocent in the process.

He watched the adorable, tiny crinkle of the bridge of her nose as she tasted the tart-sweet juice and didn't dare take his eyes off of her as she picked the remnants of the lemon from the peel, putting them in her mouth delicately and sucking the sticky liquid off of her fingertips. He watched her eyes under the mischievous curve of her dark eyelashes, glinting provocatively.

She knew more than anyone how it affected him to watch. He was seduced by the languid way she enjoyed it and drawn in with no chance of escape by just the lascivious thoughts she expertly evinced.

She shifted slightly and leaned forward, touching her tongue to the empty peel; he caught a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage beneath her white oxford, unbuttoned precariously at the top. He could shake her for the torture she was inflicting, but there were other things on his mind more rewarding than mere torture.

Jenny pulled her water glass towards her, ignoring the sweat on the glass, and dropped the lemon peel back in among the ice cubes. She started to pull the straw towards her when Jethro's hand covered the glass; she looked up in mild surprise. He stood directly in front of her desk, his eyes dark and liquid in their fire.

He stormed around the desk and grabbed her wrist, yanking her out of the chair and smirking at her small squeak of surprise. She bit her lower lip in a teasing pout and cocked her eyebrow, as if asking him just _what_ he was going to do with her.

He tangled his hand into her silky hair and crashed his mouth into hers, running his tongue over her lips. He loved that lemon fetish of hers as much as he loved kissing her; she was as exotic, unorthodox, and clashingly sour and sweet as the fruit itself. Watching her enjoy it was nothing to tasting it; zesty juice left on her lips and in her mouth, almost shocking in its flavor.

Jenny pulled back and gave him a blazing look, as hot as the summer sun, her lips parted, breathing ragged, and eyes bright with triumph.

"What was it you wanted, Jethro?" she inquired innocently, with a touch of the professional in her cool tone.

He pushed her back against her desk.

"Forgot," he murmured against her lips, and drew her into another citrus-filled lip-lock.

* * *

_The beach definitely influences fruity, citrus-y thoughts.  
Alexa_


	6. Honey Dust

_A/N: Perhaps I've crossed the smutty line of no return, but DAMN this was fun to write._

_"It makes a woman's skin feel silky smooth. When kissed, it tastes like honey." --Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season2Ep"SWAK"_

_"...very sensuous. You apply it with a feather!"--Anthony DiNozzo, Season2Ep"SWAK"_

_

* * *

_

_Honey Dust_

They weren't lying when they said it made a woman's skin feel silky smooth.

Not that hers _needed_ it.

He'd had honey and sugar—what he was sure this stuff was made of—and he'd tasted her skin before, but there was nothing so dizzyingly mouth-watering as kissing honey dust off of her perfect, cream-white skin.

And she thought _she_ felt good.

He drank in the sight of her muscles contracting, her skin shivering, and her lip bitten seductively as he drew the feather slowly over her thighs, brushing it over her stomach, coating her supple skin with the fine, shimmering powder.

Her breathing was shallow, apprehensive, bated with anticipation. The feather was enough to make her curl her toes, but he knew that wasn't all of it. It was the ache in her nerves, the warmth in the pit of her stomach, the arousal that came with not knowing where his mouth would touch her next that had her high in his power.

He liked it almost as much as he loved the taste of her skin.

He'd take the taste of fever and want, and nothing but, off her skin any time she asked; he didn't need bribing with manufactured oils or novelty edible panties—but Leroy Jethro Gibbs admitted to a sweet tooth soothed wantonly by a sprinkling of honey dust.

"_Oh_," the breath escaped her lips softly.

He drew the feather lightly down her sternum, snowing cinders of honey in the valley between her breasts, looking up at her from her navel.

She had a hand in her hair, pushing it back from her face, knotted in it tightly, her head titled back into his pillows, her other hand tangling bed sheets mercilessly into her fingers. He watched her lick her lips, then bite the lower one shakily again, her back arching just a little.

He smirked, touching her teasingly with the feather, letting the tip flirt with her skin and then pulling it away as he moved back down her body, watching her white skin colour soft pink with desire.

He let the feather flutter from his hand, over her navel and below, hit her just right.

A moan escaped her, a throaty plea in the form of his name.

He caressed her thigh from the inside to her knee, honey dust shading his finger tips, and rested one hand on her abdomen, pinning her gently. He wrapped his hand around her slim, lithe leg just below the knee, lifting it, pressing his mouth against her calf, light and baiting at first.

He trailed light kisses over her knee, gripping her leg firmly, mouth seeking the flavor he'd just sprinkled all over her skin for his pleasure—and hers. His mouth hit the inside of her thigh and he paused, trailing his hand lower on her navel. He heard Jenny take a steadying breath and ran his tongue over his lips slowly, so it hit her leg, the saccharine flavor hitting directly at his groin.

He swore Jenny stopped breathing.

Her leg twitched, as if she were trying to pull away from him, but he held firm, his hand moving to her other leg, pushing it gently to the side. He moved his mouth higher, addicted to the taste; it went to his head like good bourbon, influenced him the same way.

"Jen," he growled, so the vibration of his timbre darted up her spine and sparked her nerve endings, and her breath hitched.

His tongue teased her again, tracing the letters of her name on her thigh. He had more sugar in his mouth than he'd regularly allow, and he didn't give a damn if it cursed him with a cavity.

He heard her moaning. It was all he could hear. It was driving him crazy. He pushed his finger tips into her other thigh, shushing her, doubting his control.

"God," she whimpered throatily.

His lips found their way up her thigh slowly, agonizingly slowly for her. He scraped his teeth so delicately over her hip bone that it wasn't enough to push her too far, but enough to make her cry out for him.

He looked at her again as his mouth lingered above her abdomen, making her wait, making her guess, while he reigned his control and let the zest consume his taste buds and his blood. She tossed her head, moved her hand from the rumpled bed sheets, reaching for herself.

He pushed her hand away, fingers squeezing hers, lowering his mouth to her navel.

He kissed the honey dust from her well-toned abdomen muscles, slowly tending to each as they shivered and clenched under his searching lips. Her hand threaded through his hair, touching him reverently, pushing his head down.

He lingered, his tongue tracing her navel, dipping to her bellybutton and the valley her hips made before he found her other leg, running his hand over it before resuming his pressure on her stomach to keep her immobile on the bed.

She writhed under his hand, her skin hot to the touch, burning almost. The smell of the honey and sugar was alluring enough, without the arresting scent of her spicy perfume and the musk of arousal.

"Christ, Jen," he murmured appreciatively, one thumb exploring her other leg lazily as his mouth lowered to this one.

She moaned softly, her voice breaking to a heightened gasp when he drew his tongue over her sensitive skin, pressing his mouth to her leg hard.

He heard her approval in her throat this time, in the shudder that ran down her spine and the way she arched again, almost twisting towards him. He held her down steady; her pleading, husky murmur of incoherence tempting him. Provoking him.

He wanted her, more than anything. He wanted the memory of her like this branded into his mind, there when he closed his eyes, her snowy skin glimmering with sweat and crystals of sugar, her mouth parted in desire, her skin exquisite and honeyed.

It didn't just smack of honey off Jen's skin; it was heaven and hell, coffee and bourbon, and every dangerous drug he was ever warned against. It messed him up worse than morphine and cough syrup, tasted better than whatever nectar the gods claimed to possess.

His touch was heavy on her now, his fingertips sinking into the warm flesh of her thighs, his mouth dangerously close on the inside of her legs. He breathed out slowly, as if mocking her, and in her throat she sounded like she would cry as she whimpered with the need, her fingers brushing against his on her thigh.

"Tease," she choked, her voice laced with restrained screams and cries, forced control, and bridled lust. "God, Jethro, _please_," she insisted. "Oh, _yes_."

He smirked, shushing her soothingly as his mouth found her centre. The sensation of the hush, and at last the gratification, ricocheted through her in every way, physical and mental, stopping her heart. She gave him a sharp cry, pushed her head back into the pillows; her toes curled.

He'd forgotten what this did to her. He remembered so clearly the cloying honey dust, the addiction it bespoke and the exotic, sweet hypnotism it held for him, but he hadn't remembered how his tongue for honey had made her shake.

Her breathing quickened easily. Her nails dug into his hand, she arched towards him. He stroked her legs with precision, slow and caressing, making her feel the pressure build, refusing to let her squirm in his grip. Damn, she was wound tight. He could shatter her with the right touch.

He wasn't sure he was sober. He entertained the notion of there being hard liqueur in honey dust that the applier was not forewarned of. It sugar-rushed through his blood, saturated his mouth, pulled his abdominal muscles tight.

His own arousal aching for her, he teased his tongue over Jenny mercilessly.

He felt the tremors start to ripple through her, heightened his rhythm when her hand grasped tightly at his and a shudder wracked through her. She seemed to pull so tight she'd break and he pushed her through it, listening to her voice it.

"**Jesus**, Jethro!"

It was almost a scream that preceded the final shivers down her spine, the burst that had her melting under his mouth and his touch and her pulse running, controlling her. Her words faded into gasps, cries and moans of ecstasy.

He was dragging himself up her body, tongue and teeth, kissing up her navel and over her ribs, seeking flavor, keeping her on edge. He had the feather in his magician's hands again, dancing over her lips, spreading shimmery gold dust there.

He kissed her hard, raggedly, his mouth demanding and harsh, honey on his tongue and honey on hers. She shivered, her legs wrapping around him tightly, back arched, her lips moving. Her moans reverberated through his chest and down his spine. _Christ_, he didn't know if she'd ever stop moaning.

He didn't think he'd taste anything but honey dust and Jenny Shepard ever again.

* * *

_Oh I'm sure you all knew this flavor was coming--no pun intended. :]_


	7. Coffee

_A/N: Again, a predictible flavor that had to be included. So much fun. _

* * *

_Coffee_

Her head was aching. It had started as a dull, warning throb and progressed from there. She could not focus. She felt tired. Her eyes hurt.

God, she needed coffee.

Her townhouse was inexplicably and tragically empty of it. She had spent the morning searching and been late, leaving no time for a quick stop at the nearest Starbucks. It had not struck her that coffee was such a crucial part of her routine.

It struck her now. Hard.

She had never give credit to the notion that she was addicted to coffee.

She started to rethink that now, when she was _preoccupied_ with coffee.

Coffee woke her up the mornings. Coffee soothed any muscles that had been wounded by an awkward sleep position and coffee prepared her to handle whatever her agency decided to throw at her.

She loved coffee.

She loved that no matter what flavor syrup she experimented with—vanilla, hazelnut, caramel, or even orange—there was always the bitter, sharp kick to it. Coffee was a realist's drink. The right mix of sweet and spice.

Or naughty and nice, which so ever metaphor was your preference.

She loved the shock coffee gave to her system and the warmth of it. Hot chocolate or tea made her sleepy and soothed her; coffee kept her awake and soothed her in a different way. She loved the taste, the astringency and the mingled, subtle candied flavor. She loved occasionally indulging in whipped cream on top just to cool the edges.

She loved the smell, indescribable to the point where she could only say it smelled good and yet that didn't seem a worthy adjective. She liked being woken by the aroma, had a curious penchant for coffee-scented candles. She found the fragrance of coffee attractive.

She loved how it felt in her mouth. Velvety, hot enough to burn, spicy on her tongue and prickling in the back of her throat. The feel and the taste and the smell overrode stress instantly and charged her.

In the back of her mind, it reminded her of a different smell and a different taste and a different feel—coffee was one part of a trio of scents that made her feel good, and maybe that's why she craved it so much, and needed it now.

Bourbon wasn't allowed on the job, and she wasn't a sawdust kind-a girl.

Jennifer Shepard, Director of NCIS, groaned and ran a hand back through her hair again as she scratched out something she'd written. She turned to her computer, pulling up her schedule, blinking. Focus. She didn't have her focus.

She was too busy thinking about coffee.

She put her fingers to her lips and paused for a moment, closing her eyes.

She was thinking about coffee like it was sex.

Damn, she really needed her coffee.

Gritting her teeth in frustration, she snatched her desk phone from its cradle and pressed a button quickly.

"Gibbs," he grunted.

"Agent Gibbs," she began, swallowing hard.

"Yes Di-rec-tor?" he drawled, recognizing her voice.

"Find your way to my office. Now. And bring your coffee," she added sharply, slamming her phone back down before he could register what happened. She leaned back in her hair, tilting her head back and closing her eyes briefly.

She would never make the mistake of thinking she could survive a day without her morning coffee again. Not if she was going to start fantasizing about the taste and the flavor and…

She shivered.

If she was thinking about coffee like it was sex, maybe she was subconsciously trying to tell herself something.

She was too distracted to jump when her office door flew open dramatically and one Leroy Jethro Gibbs stormed in, letting it bang shut in slow motion behind him. She had been expecting it anyhow.

Jenny stood up, not bothering to welcome him. She met him at the door before he'd had a chance to waltz in arrogantly and get a word out to antagonize her. She flicked her eyes down to his empty hands and looked back up at his mischievous blue eyes threateningly.

"Where's your coffee?" she growled.

He smirked.

"Long gone, Jen. Been at work for two hours," he answered smugly, as if he were enjoying this.

She stepped closer to him menacingly, attempting to restrain herself from attacking him violently, and finding a way to separate the coffee from his blood when he was dead for his stupid smugness.

Her eyes fell to his mouth and she set her jaw, breathing in. He smelled like coffee, it hit her instantly, almost dizzying, definitely intoxicating. Her eyes drawn to the curve of her mouth, she wondered if he might taste like coffee; he always had.

She lost her breath suddenly and reached up, catching his collar in one small hand and tugging him closer. His eyebrows went up.

"You'll do," she whispered hoarsely, and used the brunt of her strength to shove him back against her office door and press herself against him, her lips colliding with his before he had a chance to enjoy what had just happened.

She didn't really give a damn about that. She wasn't about giving him a chance to enjoy.

He did still taste like coffee.

What she had forgotten was that on his lips and in his mouth, it was infinitely better than from a Styrofoam cup.

She took a brief, lucid moment to push the lock on the door behind him and then she hooked her fingers into his pants, pulling his hips against hers firmly, her lips parting from his briefly to draw a ragged, desperate breath of oxygen.

"God, Jen," he complimented breathlessly. She felt the shake in his hand as he reached for her waist, travelling up, and curving around her breast brazenly as if he had a right to try and take control in her own office.

"Miss your morning coffee?" he asked gruffly, his other hand pressing into her lower back and curving her body tight against his, seeking to remove all barriers between them. She drew his bottom lip into her mouth, the vibration of her moan as he cupped her breast gently sending shivers down his spine.

She ground her hips against his, biting down on his lip and covering his mouth with hers again, parting her lips for his tongue. Jethro's hands slid to her hips, gripping tightly. He hooked his thumbs in her skirt and dragged it up her thighs.

"I can taste it in your mouth," she said in a low whisper, in a voice that she knew drove him crazy.

He spun her around, her back slamming against the door with the force of his sudden take-over. He lifted her up and wrapped her thighs around his waist, his blue eyes for a moment boring into hers, dark and aroused.

"Yeah, you always did like that," he said hoarsely, pressing his mouth against her neck and kissing down the elegant arch. He bit down on her shoulder, through the delicate material of her expensive blouse.

She gripped her fingers into his hair, her other hand adroitly falling to his waist between them, running over him through the constricting material of his pants and then loosening the belt and opening the button.

He groaned as she touched him and brushed his mouth up to her jaw teasing the corners of her mouth until she captured his lips under hers again and sought the inebriating taste of him, sweet and bitter like coffee, and spicy in something that was and only ever would be Jethro.

He stroked the inside of her thigh, fingers brushing against her panties. She moaned, closing her eyes, imagining his bed instead of her office, where his sheets could touch her skin and everything would smell like him.

"Jen," he groaned in her ear, kissing her there, his hand tangling in her hair and pulling tight, his breathing reaching ragged much faster than her because she was savoring this like her daily cup of coffee and he just wanted to be inside her.

She shook her head, swallowing, exposing her neck to him and then pressing her forehead into his. She pressed her open mouth to his lips, skipping formalities and stumbling into another deep kiss. She alone knew how fast her kisses could bring him to the edge, but that's what she wanted now.

His taste. His coffee, caffeine, unique, satisfying taste.

He thrust his hips against her and she gasped, faltering in his kiss to catch the breath he stole. She pressed her palm against his chest, shaking her head again slowly. Not against the door. She leaned her head back and shivered, biting her lip.

"Where?" he asked hoarsely, understanding her meaning. Cynthia would hear. This had happened before, at night, after the hardest missions; when Cynthia wasn't around and it didn't matter if the door slammed against its frame.

She disentangled herself from his warm grip and stood shakily, reaching for his jacket and shucking it off his shoulders, fumbling wit the buttons on his shirt as she pulled him towards the table she used to meet with senators and the SecNav.

She smirked at the thought.

She enjoyed spreading her work out over this table and having a hot mug of coffee.

She would enjoy just as much being spread out on it with Jethro, equivalent to a cup of coffee in her mind.

He pushed her roughly back onto it, crawling over her as she dropped his shirt to the side and pulled him down to her, his bare chest warm and firm against her still clothed breasts. He yanked her skirt up and her lace lingerie down, hands running reverently over her thighs.

She braced her hands wickedly against his shoulders holding him back, and leaned up to kiss him, tasting that coffee-flavor again, her craving almost slaked; her head spun. He kissed back violently, lust in the movement of his tongue

She was intoxicated by his flavor and the scent of him that filled her nostrils, reminding her of coffee and taking her mind off of it completely at the same time. He reached for her hair and threaded his hands into it, flattening his hand on the table and then putting a hand on her shoulder and pressing it back into the table as he thrust into her.

She cried out against his lips, muffling the sound. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, gripping his shoulders tightly. Jethro lowered his mouth to her shoulders and neck, kissing her jaw and running his tongue along her skin to taste her arousal. He pulled her mouth to his again, the only way to silence her need to cry for him.

Jenny moaned into his lips. He felt her shiver and squeezed her shoulder, closing his eyes as she tightened around him and her nails pricked into his back. He knew when it hit her, opened his eyes to looked at her, and shuddered with a groan when he met the look in her eyes that always pushed him over the edge.

He collapsed next to her, hitting hard against the smooth wood table, listening to the shiver in her breath as she held him to her, her mouth seeking his more gently now.

He held her lips to his with his hand still tangled in her messy hair, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.

She smirked against his lips, murmuring his name, her voice shaky and hoarse. She felt awake, understandably. Coffee wasn't on her mind anymore, not in an obsessive way but in a sated way. She kissed the corner of his mouth, slowly, her eyes meeting his,

"You're addicted," he growled sharply, his cobalt eyes intense and gorgeous so close to hers.

"To coffee?" she murmured, reaching to brush hair away from her face and meeting his hand in her hair. She tangled her fingers into his, squeezing his hand. "Or you?" she asked wickedly, arrogantly.

He snickered, kissing her slowly, deeply, until she squeezed his hand again and moaned softly, her lashes fluttering languidly.

"One and the same," he quipped and she laughed, her bright green eyes rife with scandal and sin.

She was addicted to her coffee, yes; she was addicted to her Jethro, too, and the way his kiss always tasted like the bitter Jamaican swill.


	8. Melted Cheese

_A/N: I have an irrational love of melted cheese and a new passion for baseball; thus behold this unorthodox "flavor" theme. I find it rather more interesting than the oh-so-common strawberry, cherry, chocolate, etc. So, voila! C'est fromage. _

_

* * *

__Melted Cheese_

There really is _nothing_ sexy about melted cheese.

It is thick, gooey, too hot, or too cold, garishly coloured—in other words, its melted cheese.

Jenny loves it—melted cheese—nachos are her favorite baseball game snack, with no cheese drizzled on the chips (that makes them soggy) and more of it licked off her fingers than consumed via dipping chips.

He likes melted cheese enough, too, but he doesn't love it like she does, and as unsexy as it sounds and seems—he just likes to watch her eat it, and when it comes to that, he can make anything sexy.

And in contrast with the Senators and government officials and businessmen who had their eyes all over her when she was trussed up in perfume and diamonds and thousand dollar dresses, he found her sexiest in a setting like this baseball game, when her hair was tousled and half-tangled and she had a cap on and tight jeans and an old t-shirt she'd probably had since college.

Munching on nachos, and licking melted cheese off of her fingers.

It was late spring, warm and sunny outside, and the fact that they were enjoying this together, like some kind of old-fashioned, American heartland, teenage date, reminded him acutely that melted cheese was the flavor of fun.

"Spicy," Jenny muttered next to him, biting off part of a tortilla chip crisply. She shifted and tilted her head at him, her red hair tumbling over her shoulder fetchingly. She held the chip between her fingers, lifted an eyebrow, and flicked her eyes down, offering him a taste.

He smirked and shook his head.

"Mmm, you don't know what you're missin'," she teased, finishing the tip, dipping her finger into the cheese and closing her lips over it. He just watched her.

She loved melted cheese too much. Such a guilty pleasure. _So_ many calories, and for no good reason, either. Coffee calories were acceptable because she needed it to stay awake; bourbon calories acceptable because she needed that to take the edge off.

Melted cheese was just fun. It was warm. She liked it on mashed potatoes, pizza, pasta—lasagna especially—but nachos, more than anything. Melted cheese had a lingering spice to it that made her tongue tingle; it had a taste somewhere between cheddar and American and something else, and it was just enjoyable to eat.

The chips were okay, but she much preferred just scooping up the gooey cheese on her finger tip and eating it that way, almost oblivious to how much Jethro preferred that—almost. She turned her head to follow a Washington Nationals' player's fly ball and caught him watching out of the corner of her eye.

She smirked, and removed her finger from her mouth provocatively.

"You look like you want a taste," she remarked, arching an eyebrow.

She dipped her finger in it again, holding up the plastic tray between them. She wasn't foolish enough to think he'd even consider tasting it off her finger, but she made it clear the invitation was open.

She licked it off her finger instead, snuggling up closer to him.

"What are you thinking about me doing with this cheese, Jethro?" she asked softly, plucking a tortilla chip out and swirling it around in the melted cheese. She felt rather than heard his laugher. He tightened his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her temple; she looked up, lifting her brow expectantly.

He put his lips next to her ear and told her, more detailed than Jethro usually was, and in a relatively hard core way—a sentence that involved the growl in his throat that he reserved for her and a phrase that might have involved the word 'blow'.

She bit her tongue, mid-bite of her tortilla chip, startled by his comment into laughter. He grinned against her ear and she lashed out with her hand, smacking the back of it against his chest in a light reprimand.

He slipped his hand down her waist over her thigh and between her legs and she knocked her knee into his playfully.

"Take me out to the ballgame…" she sang softly, tilting her head back and laughing. She pressed her fingers to her lips, sticking her tongue out to run it over her lips and police the melted cheese that lingered there.

He turned towards her, reached out and tugged on her hair gently, and pulled her mouth to his, preferring to taste it off of her mouth than a bland tortilla chip. She smiled, clasped her hand over his, and breathed him in while he ran his tongue over her lips, hugging her closer.

Spicy; like she said. Warm, sticky, and cheesy. Fun; like her at a baseball game in the sun with no worries. The great American past time: kissing Jenny when her lips were iced with melted cheese.

On second thought…there were plenty of things that made melted cheese sexy.

Namely, sexy redheads.


	9. Cinnamon

_Cinnamon_

* * *

Eating cinnamon is like playing with fire.

It burns.

It is comparable to kissing Jenny Shepard; that burns too, because messing with that woman is like playing with fire.

He's never liked cinnamon, but it reminds him of her. Could be because of the red tint; everything red reminds him of her. More likely it's because of the sting to the taste buds. It's hot, but it's just right, and it only hurts you if you use it wrong.

It's Jenny.

Could be that's why she loves it.

She is one of the only women he knows who eats those little, red-hot, cinnamon candies without flinching. She says they tickle her tongue, and if she's feeling generous, she uses her intoxicating tongue to tickle his mouth when the bag of cinnamon treats is depleted.

And that's when he concedes a grudging partiality to Cinnamon. If she's offering it, that is.

Could be because the scent and the taste mixed is exotic and nostalgic at once. Because she had cinnamon lip stain in Paris, and when he kissed her then, it made his mouth tingle and he ached for more. She used to sprinkle cinnamon in her coffee, or stir hot chocolate with a stick of it in the cold Russian winters, and chocolate-and-cinnamon ran a close second to coffee-and-cinnamon as the best damn flavor he ever tasted off Jen.

Cinnamon is mouth-watering because of the burn; because it doesn't quench anything; it whets and it makes him want—need—more.

And in that respect it is definitely Jenny.

Cinnamon has a bite to it. It had anger in its passion; not sensual like chocolate or strawberries, just blazing. He likes that most about it.

Could be he likes the smell lingering around Jenny's lips; could be he likes the taste of cinnamon-laced lust off her mouth and tongue.

He doesn't care if paperwork has been abandoned in light of him sticking his tongue down Jen's throat behind a locked door in her office; he knows she's been eating those damn cinnamon candies again, and he can't get enough.

He could kiss her for hours when she tastes like this.

Her hair reminds him of cinnamon too, and he pushes his hands into it, kisses her harder, and makes her grip his arms tightly.

He likes the spice, and he likes the way it burns.


	10. Whipped Cream

_A/N: I'm hard-pressed to believe this is the last chapter of 'Flavors'. My, my. Cliche flavor, but unorthodox update (Oooh, that was fun alliteration...). It's different from the others. _

* * *

_Whipped Cream_

She never did quite understand his affinity for whipped cream.

She herself liked it well enough, if it was gracing a slice of cheesecake or making pretty her classic morning latte. She had once or twice indulged in finishing off a can by emptying the sparse contents left onto her tongue, but she wasn't obsessed with the stuff.

One Leroy Jethro Gibbs, on the other hand, was a different story.

The man loved whipped cream. And for someone who denied having virtually any semblance of a sweet tooth, that was saying something.

She'd even seen him sneak whipped cream onto his coffee once. Just _once_. And _he_ didn't know she knew.

It was mind-boggling, really. Whipped cream was everything Jethro was decidedly _not_—sweet, foamy, fluffy, girly, et cetera. Yet he would devour it right out of the can like it wasn't weird at all.

She may have mocked him about it in Paris, but she had come to discover that if he was getting into the whipped cream, he was pissed that something was bothering him. It was like his strange, Jethro-ish way of moping like a girl; his comfort "food" that he didn't want to admit meant he needed to be cheered up.

She didn't particularly _mind_ the quaint whipped cream affinity—if he was eating it, it usually meant he was in a vulnerable place.

Not to mention he tasted damn good.

Naturally, to her senses, Jethro tasted damn good anyway, but licking whipped cream off of his lips and tongue was like eating desert. You know, with whipped cream on top. Irresistible.

She knew, then, when she sauntered down his basement stairs one boring Sunday afternoon and found him in faded, worn clothes amidst his workbench, tools, and NCIS effects with not a mason jar of bourbon but a can of fresh, cool whipped cream, that he was in a _mood_.

Maybe it was his time of the month.

Her eyebrow arched and she smirked at the thought; her foot clicked on the concrete basement floor and he looked up, pausing, his blue eyes narrowing at her as he lowered the can from his mouth and swallowed.

He looked at her warily.

Jenny pursed her lips, parting them slightly as she prepared to whip a snarky remark at him—but her eyes flicked to something next to him on the counter, and she paused. Dusty old pink box, open, a few children's colouring pages peeking out of it.

She closed her mouth.

It clicked, without warning. Kelly had no doubt been a typical little girl. Whipped cream reminded him of his daughter.

Jethro cut his eyes in the direction she was looking and she immediately fixed her eyes back on him, a little of the sass gone from her walk as she strolled forward closer. His eyes slid over her t-shirt and gym shorts, taking in her cursorily tied up ponytail, perhaps wondering what brought her here after a work-out.

She reached out to touch his shoulder, and paused suspiciously, curling her fingers in sharply. He had arched an eyebrow mischievously, something leaping up to gleam in his cobalt eyes.

"Jethro—"

He twisted his wrist slightly to the side, smirked wickedly, and squinted one eye as if in concentration. Then, he did what any hot-blooded male in the presence of a can of whipped cream and an attractive female would do—he sprayed it on her.

He got her good.

Jenny let out a shriek.

The saccharine white foam oozed into her hair and her lips and neck and all over her t-shirt, turning her into a sugar-snow-monster of a redhead. Her green eyes flashed in outrage and he thrust salt into the wound, casually, tasting another bit of the whipped cream before he chucked it behind him on the counter with a smirk.

He reached out to push her hair back and she slapped his hand away, attempting to look furious while a smile tried to break through. He caught her hand and pulled her towards him, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. She tried to kiss him back best she could, her senses assaulted by too much sweetness and the surprise of his action.

He grinned and scraped his teeth down to her neck, licking whipped cream off of her skin.

Jenny laughed.

She had never been the woman to get turned on by food on her body in bed—it was messy. She had to admit, though, to a bit of jealousy for Jethro's 'whipped cream affinity', and if he wanted to lick the candied white dessert topping off of her, she claimed victory over it as his favorite comfort food.

* * *

_Where was the angst, ask you? I can't find it either!  
THE END_


End file.
